keep calm and craft on

✨Tell Us What Your Craft Looks Like! 🔮

Witchcraft is versatile. It doesn’t have a strict, set image. What does your witchcraft look like?

My craft looks like globs of paint and gluing in random things in my grimoire that are never meant to be stuck on a page. It’s unplanned drawings, my awful handwriting, printed pictures and a million different aesthetics that don’t go together but exist side by side anyway.

My craft looks like me playing my miniature half inch harmonica necklace at my crystals because I can’t afford a sound bowl to cleanse them.

My craft looks like me shuffling my dirty clothes out of my ritual space with a feather in one hand, yarn in the other and 80’s death rock playing on my phone. It’s me facing out the window because it’s always too cold to go outside when you live in New York.

My craft looks like sigils written on my arm with liquid eyeliner because I don’t know if my acrylic paint is skin safe. It looks like me crocheting a scarf while playing an hour long YouTube video of a cat purring to keep the energies calm and relaxing.

My craft looks like me hauling my sixty pound tortoise outside in the summer and drawing in my sketchbook while I wait for the deer to come and check out my tortoise. It’s me looking up at the full moon and saying “ooo gurl, you’re lookin real good tonight. Nice job as always.”

What does your craft look like? I would love to hear about it!

Flight Control

Destiel drabble
1554 words
PG
AU centered entirely around Dean’s fear of flying
AO3 link

When he told the story of how he met his husband to new acquaintances, Dean would always start by admitting that he hadn’t noticed the other man when he first boarded the plane. Usually, a guy that looked like him - messy dark brown hair, piercing blue eyes, strong, lean body with muscled legs and the finest ass Dean had seen in quite some time - would’ve caught Dean’s eye immediately. But Dean was…distracted, to say the least. He had been trying to stave off a panic attack since he was waiting at the gate for the plane to start boarding, and by the time he’d reached his seat - 17A, a window seat - he was breathing shallowly and sweating uncontrollably even though the air inside the craft was cold.

Preoccupied with trying to keep himself calm and berating himself for not asking his boss to reconsider the necessity of this trip, Dean missed the dark-haired man coming down the aisle and sitting down in the aisle seat of the middle row in front of him. If he had been paying attention, Dean would have noticed the man’s assessing eyes on him as he was making himself comfortable. But no, Dean was too busy praying that the seat next to him would remain unoccupied so that he could at least panic in relative privacy.

No such luck, though, and a mere five minutes after Dean had arrived, a woman suddenly plopped down next to him. She looked to be in her forties, with just a little too much foundation and powder caked on her face, and lipstick in an unflattering shade of orange-pink to match the color of the blouse she was wearing. “Hi! I’m Gina, nice to meet you!” she enthused, sounding way too chipper for someone on an early morning flight.

Dean was utterly uninterested in starting any kind of conversation at the moment that didn’t revolve around discussing the most likely manner of their impending death, but he politely responded with a curt “Dean” hoping that his obvious lack of enthusiasm would put her off.

It didn’t. For the next ten minutes, Dean was forced to listen to stories about Gina’s husband (“he’s always working so late, the poor dear”), her two chihuahuas Abby and Growley, her plans for this trip (“I’m going to see my sister to help her plan her wedding because she just can’t cope without me, bless her”) and her thoughts on American politics (“that Ted Cruz was such a sweet Christian boy. Trump is far too vulgar for me so I think I just won’t vote this year”). Luckily, she didn’t require any more input from Dean than a few nods and affirming grunts to show that he was listening.

The whole situation frustrated him, which didn’t help his nerves one iota, and Dean could feel himself steadily getting worse throughout the diatribe. When he heard the announcement that boarding would soon be completed, he thought, “I can’t do this. I need to leave,” and started to unbuckle his belt. He was about to turn to Gina, who was still talking about something - the weather, maybe? - and ask her to let him pass, when suddenly a man was standing next to their seats.

“Excuse me,” the man said, his voice deep and gravelly and his eyes fixed on Gina with a neutral expression, “but could I speak to you for a moment?” Gina was visibly flustered, and Dean couldn’t blame her because the man was fucking gorgeous. Just looking at him provided a welcome, momentary distraction from his predicament.

“O- of course,” Gina stuttered, and busied herself with unbuckling her seatbelt. The man nodded, and while Gina wasn’t looking he shot Dean an unreadable look - and was that a wink?! - before turning on his heel and walking to the midsection of the plane where the toilets were with an eager Gina in tow.

Dean was left bewildered, thinking he must have been mistaken as it was surely impossible the man had actually winked at him. Obviously, the fear had made him delusional. Great.

From his seat he couldn’t see either of them, nor could he hear them as they were too far away. He would’ve paid to be a fly on that wall, though, and curiosity was eating at him. Luckily he didn’t have to wait long. They both returned after only a few minutes, Gina looking apprehensive and not so perky anymore, the man wearing a small, pleased smile.

“Well, Dean, it seems I made a mistake with my seat number and accidentally took this gentleman’s seat,” Gina said, laughing nervously. She was a terrible liar. Grabbing her purse that had been wedged underneath the seat in front of her, she straightened and said, “it was nice to meet you, take care now!” and left in a hurry, sitting down in the seat that had previously been occupied by the mystery man. The very same man who was putting his hand luggage in the compartment above their heads before taking the seat next to Dean.

Dean was confused. None of it made any sense, and he was starting to feel the panic creep up again. The man turned to him and leaned in, putting his lips near Dean’s ear (which didn’t help with the flustered feeling Dean was already experiencing). “I apologize if I was presumptuous, but I couldn’t help but notice you seemed to be experiencing some discomfort and anxiety related to flying and that Mrs. Parker’s…enthusiasm wasn’t helping,” he said in a low, quiet and pleasant rumble that sent shivers down Dean’s spine.

“What -” the word came out hoarse and Dean had to lick his lips and swallow before continuing. He did notice the man’s eyes tracking the movement of his tongue. “- did you do to make her switch seats?”

The man smiled, looking just a tiny bit pleased with himself. He had a very nice smile, Dean found himself thinking. “I told her I am a doctor and had noticed some mild flu symptoms on you. I explained to her how quickly viral infections spread inside an airplane, and that it would be best for her to switch seats with me since I have received the latest flu shot and am therefore relatively safe from infection.”

For a few moments it was quiet between them as Dean tried to sort through what the man had just told him. Eventually, he said, “how much of that is actually true?”

The man grinned at him, his blue eyes twinkling. “Well, I am a doctor,” he said cheekily. At that, Dean couldn’t help but burst out laughing - breathless gasps that released much of the tension he had been carrying and made him miss the announcement the captain made to the cabin crew to prepare for takeoff. He did notice when they started moving, and immediately tore his gaze away from the man to look out the window.

“Shit,” he thought, “too late to leave now. I’m so fucked. Shit shit shit…” the litany of swear words continued in his head like a chant, and his heart rate started speeding up again. This was going horrible wrong, he was going to pass out, he-

Dean’s breath hitched when he felt the man take his hand. He slowly turned to him and he must’ve looked pretty dazed and confused, because the man smiled that sunny smile at him again and said, “Breathe, Dean. Long, deep, slow breaths. Here, follow my lead.” The man started inhaling and exhaling slowly, and Dean couldn’t help but be drawn into it. All through takeoff, he held the man’s hypnotic gaze and breathed in sync with him, falling into some kind of trance.

“You’re doing so well, Dean, you’re being so good,” the man murmured, stroking his hand gently, intimately. When Dean came back to himself, they had already stabilized at cruising altitude, and the fasten seatbelt sign had been switched off. He felt this deep calm that he had rarely experienced before and certainly never on an airplane. He shot a grateful smile at the stranger. “Thanks for that, uh, what’s your name?” he said, embarrassed that this man had already helped him so much but he didn’t even know the guy’s name.

“Castiel Novak. Nice to meet you, Dean…”

“Winchester. Dean Winchester. Uh, great to meet you too. Sorry you had to see me like this,” Dean said, running a hand through his hair, his cheeks reddening with belated embarrassment.

“Not at all. Fear of flying is very common and quite understandable. It is an involuntary response and you cannot be blamed for your body’s reaction to it. I am just happy I was able to assist you,” the man – Castiel – said.

Dean suddenly realized they were still holding hands. He was about to retract his own when he realized that actually, he really liked holding Castiel’s hand. And Castiel sure as hell wasn’t pulling back, either. In fact, Dean was feeling quite brave, and decided to gently squeeze Castiel’s hand instead. He could see the man’s eyes soften as he squeezed back, and they fell into an easy conversation that lasted the entire two-hour flight.

Dean arrived in Denver clutching the business card of one Dr. Castiel Novak, his private number written on the back.

It felt like a victory.